


It’s Everywhere And Nowhere

by SpeedingCheetah



Series: blnt fics ive wrote to rip my heart out subconsciously [1]
Category: better luck next time - Fandom, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Major Character Injury, Mindless Self-Destruction, No beta we die like izuku when he resets, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Spin-off fic, This fic is a spin-off, it’s a side AU or something, read carefully :D, triggers are in the first notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeedingCheetah/pseuds/SpeedingCheetah
Summary: Izuku knew the blood wasn’t real, knew it wasn’t actually there against his skin or in his mouth. And yet, despite knowing it wasn’t actually there, he felt like it was real enough for him to try and wash off; To get off his skin.He was wrong.
Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku is mentioned, Midoriya Izuku & Shuuzenji Chiyo | Recovery Girl
Series: blnt fics ive wrote to rip my heart out subconsciously [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195742
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87
Collections: better luck next time and related works





	It’s Everywhere And Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nauticalwarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalwarrior/gifts).
  * Inspired by [better luck next time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394571) by [nauticalwarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalwarrior/pseuds/nauticalwarrior). 



> Trigger Warning: _Mentions of Violence (Gore + Blood), Mentions of Death, Mentions of Suicide, Self-Harm, Mindless Self-Destruction, Hallucinations, Single Mention of Rituals; As A Metaphor(?).._ I believe that’s all; Read with caution.
> 
> — — — 
> 
> (This was a prompt idea I had been working on; A “Spin-Off” for the Fanfiction, _better luck next time._
> 
> I’m currently very invested in the story, so here we are. I might’ve missed a trigger, but for reference there are topics here involving a lot of the same triggers from the story this is inspired by. Read carefully and be safe!)

The first time Izuku saw blood on his hands was when he first patrolled as his vigilante-persona. 

It was after a rather lengthy and tiring sentinel, when he ran into a gang-member who pulled a blade on him in the dark. It had scared the living daylight out of him. The small amount of self-confidence he had at the time of the situation had been sent flying out of his chest and urging him to engage in combat.

It had been no earlier than three-am when he arrived back in his house, silent as to not awake his mother. She hadn’t been aware that he was a vigilante at the time- And had no clue that he had ever gotten a quirk, either. Inko had been oblivious to it all, and he had yet to mess up and pass out in his costume after overworking. 

He had been patrolling the nearby cities like always, except someone had gotten too close to him when he infiltrated into a small back-alley and nearly had a fatal misstep.

Of course, it wasn’t as if _he_ could die like a normal person, but the fear that filled his body at the time was enough to make him lose his sense of calm and make him coil with panic. 

The situation that ensued was when he hadn't fully debuted as a vigilante; Before he had a full understanding of what his life had turned into, and how to deal with the way others acted out and became during the darker and more mind boggling and pain staking hours of the night. 

It had been an accident, and not something he had intended upon facing. The blade had moved too quickly at the time, and his panic had run too deep for him to think of a better way to defuse the situation. The way he instinctively maneuvered away to avoid the knife puncturing his neck, it wasn’t one of his brightest moments. 

The blade had cut deep into his left hand, causing blood to drip and start soaking into the gloves he had been wearing during as of then. When he swiveled around and skittishly grabbed the man’s arm, slamming their limb backwards, he hadn’t anticipated the blade would pierce through the man’ _own_ neck. 

He had seen the man drop to the ground, and heard his heart thunder in his chest for what felt like eternity as he watched the blood pool below the gang member’s fallen body. 

And what was debatably the worst part of this, was the fact Izuku had stood there, back pressed up against a building’s wall, staring at the blood that pooled from the man’s body. He had watched, eyes wide and hazy with an emotion that most villains would’ve laughed at him for showing to a dead corpse in an alley. 

Again, _not_ one of his brightest moves on patrol.

When he got home that night, quiet and as indistinguishable as possible, he had struggled to get his gloves off and get out of them. His mouth had been filled with saliva from resisting the urge to heave his insides up onto the concrete, to avoid ever seeing that much blood come from another person's body ever again. 

He had ripped his gloves off and thrown them into his closet, scrambling to tug off his costume and go into his bathroom to rinse away the blood. It had felt as if he was drenched in the vitality of that man, drenched in red and soaked with sticky ichor that clung to his frame and stuck to his clothes like sickly sweet syrup on pancakes. 

It had been uncomfortable on his skin, and as he stared as his left hand as it bled, his glove soaking up the redness that flooded to from the gash, he had contemplated using his quirk to try and back up up his chances of going into the alley-

But he knew it was already too long ago, and killing himself wouldn’t save him from that situation.

So instead, Izuku had scrambled to get to the bathroom. He had closed and locked the door like he’d get killed if he didn’t, to which he had no doubts that if his mother saw the injuries and costume, she would’ve freaked out.

He had desperately hoped his mother wouldn’t wake up, throwing his shirt to the ground and swiftly trying to scrub at his arms as he got a bath running. The water had been warm against his skin, soothing a phantom tension he hadn’t realized he had allowed to seep into his body. 

At the time, he had allowed his mind to spiral into all the possible, _What if’s._ He had allowed himself to indulge in his worries, to humor himself over what would and _clearly_ wouldn’t happen. 

Izuku let himself drown in the possible outcomes if his mother were to wake up and find him, locked up in the bathroom of their household, scrubbing at his arms while sitting in a tub of pinkish water that _just_ kept getting darker by each passing minute. 

He allowed himself to get caught up in scenarios that were far off from reality, twisting underneath his scrutinizing gaze despite the ideas and idle nightmares not truly existing in physical matter before him. 

As he scratched at his skin, trying to get the dried redness to go away, he dunked his limbs under the water that was tinted with red; Like the shade of pink wine in a liquor store. Then again, as it got more and more vivid, he determined it to be like a strong red wine.

His mother sometimes used it to cook food; Burning the alcoholic effects away and using it as flavor. _But this isn’t wine._ His mind had thought, making him pause and stare at the aggravated skin he had.

And yet, he kept thinking that it _was_ as he worked the rag over his arms. 

He kept coming back to the idea that someone would find him, trying to get rid of blood that didn’t exist. He knew his hand was bleeding, and that the blood from his left appendage was real as it could be, but during that situation all those months ago, Izuku hadn’t known what else to do in order to get the blood off of him.

If he went to Inko for help, she’d worry and be absolutely terrified. She had no idea he was a vigilante, had no idea that he even had a quirk. This was something that floated around in his head, bumped against his skull and made him wonder if his mother would try to stop him.

Then again, at the time of this situation, Izuku supposed his younger self was far more naive and spooked. When he looked back on this predicament, he was able to determine each mistake he made. 

But he also found it comforting in a roundabout manner. 

He used to be scared; Used to be severely off-put at the sight of blood on his hands, suddenly everywhere at once. And as such, he supposed his fear at the time was justified.

The teenager _hoped_ it had been justified.

After a solid hour of washing and pouring the water over his arms, he had started seeing blood again. His skin had been irritated and raw, but at least he hadn’t seen any blood during those miraculously questionable moments. Hadn’t seen the gore spared out before him, like some kind of feast.

So, he had started to scrub at his skin again, more shakily than he had originally been doing. The blood didn’t go away, even when he kept his hands in the water and purée it over his arms. 

It had made him feel anxious.

Telling himself that it wasn’t real, and that it wouldn’t affect him in the morning didn’t help; Nor did it cease even the tiniest spec of worry that stayed in his head, gnawing away at his preserved calmness. 

The water had washed away his fears, replacing it with a slow decrease in his pounding heart. Of course, the blood didn’t go away for awhile, so he was forced to stitch his hand up and try to cut off the source of blood that was flowing, but he found an odd comfort in scraping his knuckles clean. 

Izuku knew relying on the feeling of scrubbing himself _raw_ wasn’t good- And that he shouldn’t get accustomed to the strain and itchiness that covered his hands afterwards. That he shouldn’t get used to the way that he watched the blood on his left hand slowly disappear and give him a sense of clarity.

Yeah, he knew he shouldn’t rely on it.

But the relief that filled him as he got confirmation that the blood that stuck to his skin and soaked into his muscles, was forced to disappear when he scrubbed and scrubbed until his body tried to warn him of his mistake..

 _Yeah,_ he shouldn’t rely on it in any way, but the sense of consolation that filled him when he scrubbed his skin red was enough to keep him tethered the idea.

**— — —**

The second time he saw blood on his hands was after he got home after facing the villain by the name of, ‘Impaler’. Of course, at the time of him fighting the mutant-quirk user, Izuku had been calling him ‘Porcupine’.

The fight had resulted in him dying, not once, but _four times._

He had gone home, head pounding and body sluggish. His mom still had no idea that he was a vigilante, completely unaware of Izuku’ self-destructive habits that were a result in seeing things that _didn’t_ even exist in reality. 

It didn’t exist, really.

It didn’t exist on his body, and wasn’t actually there. 

None of the blood he was seeing was real; He _knew_ this. Izuku had already treated his injuries and avoided being killed a fifth time, so he had given himself a pat on the back for that. 

Due to the fact that seeing blood on his hands was starting to become a normal occurrence, he had snuck to the bathroom without trying to determine if he should or shouldn’t do something. Then again, you could probably blame the adrenaline running through his body for his mindless actions of ‘self-preservation’. 

Was it really self-preservation if it was also causing him harm? 

Clearly having his skin rubbed raw, for minutes that turned into hours on end, wasn’t safe. Clearly it would have a negative impact on him when he was in the right mind and had to deal with the pain from all of the ‘cleaning’.

His body moved on his own most days, forcing each foot in front of the other to make him move. Some days this hurt, other days he was internally grateful for the instinct to rub away at the blood that plagued his vision.

It didn’t matter what he did, as he still would find himself locked up somewhere, back against the door and his nails scratching at his knuckles and backsides of his hands. 

At times this was a tedious and nearly annoying thing.

At times this caused him more pain than relief.

But today was not one of those days, Izuku knew. Today was one of the days where he needed, so desperately needed to scratch and claw at his skin like there was no tomorrow. He fekt the blood dry on his flesh, paint him like a canvas and coat him in acrylics of red and orange.

Hazy purples that lined against his jaw and littered his torso on the are occasion, undertones of light blue tainting his already pale and scarred skin. The colors mixed and blended together, becoming something that others couldn’t comprehend. 

He wished that someone understood why he was so desperate-

Why he became upset if he couldn’t get the blood off. _The blood that didn’t actually exist._ It was his secret, his indulgence. A ritual that only he could participate in; Something only he could try and fix. He served no greater being, worshipped no one and held no prayers to fix what agony he dealt with. 

He would sit on bathroom tiles, rag in hand as he rubbed his delicate and already ripped flesh into redness. His pale complexion turned red and sticky, painful and agonizing to touch. 

And yet he’d still sit on the floor, back against the wall while rubbing and _rubbing,_ as if the motions he did would save him from the turmoil and darkness he called his mind. 

_It didn’t._

He’d sit there, slowly becoming less and less aware of what was around him. He’d sit still, unable to take his eyes off the blood on his hands, the blood on his knuckles, the blood under his nails, the rancid taste of flesh and coppery-metals in his mouth bathing his tongue in bittersweet memories. 

Izuku would reminisce in silence, listen to his breathing go shallow and light, and yet he wouldn’t call out. He’d keep scratching, digging at his flesh as if it’d grant him a sense of mercy- Something to save him. 

He didn’t think there was anyone to save him with, but perhaps there was.

Perhaps deep in hell, in the flames and heavy clouds of smoke and bloodlust, there was someone who could look at him with appreciation and not stare him down like he was a threat to society- A menace and an issue that the entirety of Japan needed to take care of.

Sometimes he wondered if a person like that existed; For someone to come in and ignore his stressed, _‘I’m fine’s’._ For a person to take one look at him and see that he is struggling, that he is drowning on things he didn’t even know existed until it hit him.

He thought that he had access to those types of people already, but maybe he was wrong. 

When the blood rushed through his arteries, he heard his heart start to beat harshly in his ribcage and mind go limp with possible outcomes. He would grow uncomfortable and feel sick, his stomach churning and body going numb; Like he wasn’t even human anymore. 

Like he didn’t deserve clarity like every other person did- That he didn’t deserve the same fate as the other students who he learned besides everyday, who he ate lunch with and studied with.

At one point he wanted to say that he had someone to rely on; That he had a companion and a person that trusted him to not get hurt. And perhaps he did, pergolas he was just unable to think right now and couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what was fake. 

_That was a plausible situation,_ He mused.

Trying to multitask and keep his head above the river of tears he often tried to block and stop from flowing was a burden. It was an exhausting activity, an exhausting situation he could barely keep up with.

Not as Ace.

Not as Izuku Midoriya.

No, he couldn’t keep up with his own sanity. Couldn’t look himself in the eyes after scrubbing his skin raw, trying to clean the sickness off of his limbs and get the blood off of his already shaky and jittery hands.

The pain would soothe him briefly, like how death came knocking at his door and offering a cold and yet _oh so_ welcoming embrace. He’d facepalm and curse, mutter about he shouldn’t have tried so hard despite the fatigue that haunted him; Breathing down his neck at a freakish rate. 

No matter what he did, the agony and begging of hygiene didn’t let up. 

Izuku struggled to stay calm when scrubbing his hands no longer worked. He struggled to get his head wrapped around the idea that the blood wasn’t gone- Struggled to understand _why_ it wasn’t helping anymore.

When his mind got tangled up in pointless thoughts about what was real and what wasn’t, what was fresh as the red dripped to the ground and what was just his delusional mind playing tricks on him. 

He couldn’t collect his thoughts for long, lost in an endless maze that mocked him on another level. It mocked and mocked, stared him down and made him want to  
take his eyes out of his head and throw them into the sea- To avoid contact with human life so he could minimize the self-hate he felt.

When he walked, he felt weak in the knees. It didn’t matter how fast he tried to be, slipping down alleyways at night or jogging through UA’s hallways during the day. 

Izuku still felt the sickness churn in his gut, begging for him to go and wash his hands from bloodshed that was everywhere and nowhere at once. It was on his hands, on his arms, dripping down his neck and spilling into his shirt- Staining his school uniform and leaving red goo in every blank spot in existence. 

It was like squished strawberries, bleeding through his shirt’s fabrics and staining his school blazer. The muted grey-blue would become dull and dark, damp with a hue that reminded him of wildfires on the TV.

He could feel his heart thunder in his chest, feel the aching in his bones. He became nervous and fidgety, sick and yet perfectly well. _It is all in my head._ Is what he tried to tell himself every time it got bad; That the blood was just his imagination like usual and it opposed no threat to him or anyone else.

That it simply didn’t exist, and isn't physical. It wasn’t something that could be wiped up, wasn’t something he could just go to the bathroom and rinse off from his sleeves and off the canvas of his skin.

People always said to support one another in a time of crisis, that mental health was important and would always be taken seriously, but then those same people would go out and call a person stupid or useless for not having a quirk that had a good standing in the modern world.

They’d judge and yell, pry at you no matter what you did.

And so, instead of reaching out- Izuku let himself wallow in the emotions he started to confide in. He started to dread the feeling, but feel far too realized afterwards. 

It hurt, though. 

The teenager knew his skin was drawn tight and irked the next day after scrubbing all of the natural oils out of it. He knew it would sting, and that moisturizer wouldn’t save him from the agony. In fact, he knew the raw skin he posed would only grow more inflamed if he were to do such a thing.

If he dared to try and help himself, dared to try and ask for tips, he felt the gnawing and ever-so careful anxiety start to climb up his pine and try and drag his head underwater. 

Under the same thoughts that screamed for him to give in to his urges.

Under the same thoughts that convinced him it was okay to press a blade to his skin.

Under the same thoughts that begged him to throw himself off of a building and ignore all voices of reason.

 _Who was a voice of reason?_ He’d ask himself, as if the question could bring him peace and a sense of prosperity. _Who cared enough to be that voice of reason, anyways?_

Those types of questions would fill his head, and all he could do was dunk his arms into a bathtub of water, try to submerge himself in the red-tint that was warm and soothed all of his worries in a flurry of coppery-tasting bubbles. 

He’d allow himself to get attached to the feeling, allow himself to get wrapped up in invisible arms, to be tucked close to another wave of self-hate and tension. He’d allow himself to get lost in those thoughts, allow himself to become victim to the things he wished he never had to remember.

And in the end, he still found himself on the floors of a bathroom, scratching absently at the scans on his hands that had clotted just a few hours before.

 _He always did._

**— — —**

The third time he saw blood on his hands was after fighting the Portal villain. 

On his next patrol, after gaining what he was starting to deem as _unwanted spotlight,_ he had run into Eraserhead. He hadn’t known his real name at the time, as he was still newly debuted and such, but he recognized the hero as an Underground savior.. And knew well that if he took one wrong step, he was fucked. 

For once though, he held off against his desire to get something to wash his hands with. He had been focused on saving the kid from the other villain, who he deemed to be a crazy and psychotic bastard. Lucky for him, he had gotten beaten up quite a bit, but hadn’t needed to reset himself to restart the mission.

And yet, unluckily, he had been convinced by the hero he ran into during his solo-mission to come with the man. _To the hospital._ When the kid was all set, and ran to her parents, it had just been him and the hero in that car. 

Now, Izuku had developed a knack for hiding his emotions and brushing aside his urges to put a blade to his skin; Or for him to stay in a tub of water until he felt as if there was no blood on him anywhere, but he was worn out. He was worn out and felt miserable, a voice in the back of his skull pleading and screaming at him all at once to go scrub his skin _raw._

And as such, he wasn’t in the proper mind space to stay perfectly calm. He had already felt anxious in Eraserhead’s car, resisting the urge to start scratching at his knuckles to try and get the dried blood off of his skin, but as soon as the girl had left- Which left him alone without someone to comfort, made him prickle with discomfort. 

He remembered the urge, clear as day, to fling himself out of the car and scramble home or anywhere with soap and water so he could get the blood off of his skin. 

The questions had hit him upside the head, and he was sure some of his speech was far too shaky to be considered just ‘nervous’. His body had been trembling horribly, and when Eraserhead had finally decided to ask as to _why_ he was shuddering, Izuku had blurted the excuse of, ‘I’m just cold.’

It could have been rather believable if the air on the car had been cold; But the air conditioning hadn’t been on. In fact, it had been quite warm in the vehicle. But alas, he truly hadn’t been thinking straight when he said that.

His head had been pounding and begging for him to ask to leave, to cut the ‘interrogation’ short so he could scramble home and drown himself in nice, hot, water. Begging him to get the _hell_ out of the car, to run and hide from all of his responsibilities so he could get rid of all the blood around him. 

It hadn’t just been on his hands.

The longer he sat, trying to answer the hero’s questions, the longer he started to get unnerved and jumpy. Sure, he had been injured, and if he was bleeding out from anywhere he would’ve noticed by now. But, his hoodie was red, so maybe he _was_ just imagining the feeling of dread and unwanted heat on his side.

As soon as the hero let him off the hook, he had bolted home as safely as he could. His mother only found out about his vigilante things after he passed out on his bed due to exhaustion, and at the time of him sneaking back into his home, he had been far too tired and sickly-feeling to properly take care of himself. 

Instead of ignoring up the hallucinations, the useless and annoying illusions his mind forced him to see and be tormented with, he had focused on the chimeras around him and dragged his nearly unconscious-self to the bathroom.

He had closed the bathroom door and flicked on the bathroom light as soon as he entered, struggling to keep his eyes open as his head pounded and he tasted the familiar copper-flavor that was associated with his own vitality. 

The familiar taste that wasn’t real- 

That wasn’t actually in his mouth and wasn’t actually there. 

The vigilante had known that it wasn't _actually_ flooding his throat, or that it was filling his lungs and starting to make him suffocate; He just couldn’t tell the difference at the time as he emptied the contents of his stomach out into the toilet, half-aware that his bath was growing cold with each passing minute. 

So he had pulled himself over, fumbling with one of the many bathroom rags on the towel hanger that dangled against the wall, begging for him to grab and use the cloth to wipe away the red lipids that stained his arms and painted erratic marks against his back. 

Upon grabbing one of the rags, half delirious, he had stepped into the tub without removing his costume- As _stupid_ as it was. Izuku had sat down, feeling water wrap around his clothes and stick to his body in a way that wasn’t as scary abd sickening as blood. 

From what he recalled, he had sat in the water mindlessly, resting his head on the back of the wall behind him, arms floating on the surface of the water with his sleeves rolled up and scrunched up at his shoulder-blades. 

It had hurt to focus on his body, as it felt like there were hundreds of tiny needles pressing deep into his skin and drawing blood at an agonizing rate. It didn’t matter how much he tried to wash the blood off from his hands, because it just didn’t disappear no matter how much he tried.

The rag he had been using had turned into a pink tint, no longer the pearly white color it used to be before he dipped it into the hot water he was sitting in. No matter what he did, he could still see the alarming shade of reds against his flesh.

It felt like he was an oil painting in a museum, set on fire as the colors across his canvas burned and withered away into deep shades of charcoal and ash. 

He could taste the iron on his tongue, feel it drown him in a distant longing for tranquility and peace. Something to reside in, something to forgive and look forward to as if it’d save him from the hell he lived in daily.

Each breath he took in sounded ragged, like a dying animal on steroids. Izuku couldn’t feel his hands anymore, his arms slowly going numb as well. _It wouldn’t be long._ He thought to himself in sudden pity. 

Sudden self-realization. 

His body was aching in a phantom pain, begging for him to go to sleep and stop scrubbing at his skin as if he was coated and covered in muddy substances. 

But he couldn’t stop his slow and tense movements, couldn’t stop the rolling of his wrist as he dunked his hands back into the bath tub’s water, shaking them under the surface in a desperate attempt to get the blood off. To get it off of his skin and out of his mind, far, far, _far_ away. 

His desperation didn’t work, and his body only quivered further. If he was any better, he would have tried to reach out to someone- Anyone for assistance. But what _could_ he say?

What could he even try to say to explain his destructive behaviors without sounding insane and out of his damn mind? 

Nothing he did made any sense, and despite him trying to convince his own mind that he was clean, and that he was safe, he couldn’t get the idea into his head long enough to actually make due and stop washing his arms violently.

It was a routine process.

Scraping his skin raw to try and get the delusions of blood to go away; To get his hands clean and remove the vitality of his comrades’ off of them. He could see it caked under his nails, drying under the cartilage and prodding at him to clean and take care of himself better.

He tasted it in his mouth, under his tongue like a tablet of ibuprofen. It was bitter and familiar, gritty against his taste buds and possessed a sickening feeling in attachment. Izuku didn’t know why, all he knew was the fact he needed to get the blood off of him, and out of his body.

All he knew was that he needed it gone, right this minute.

He always needed it gone, always needed it to disappear as soon as it came into his vision and filled his senses up with prickly and tense discomfort. Like someone had climbed onto his chest and wouldn’t let him get up, refusing to let him get any oxygen. 

So he kept scrubbing. His actions were erratic and had no direction, no longer the calculated and cautious movements of a normal person trying to clean their skin and rid it of excess liquids. 

_No,_ his movements were jumpy and unintelligent. He felt like his body wasn’t his own, and that everything he did wasn’t enough to get the blood gone.

It didn’t matter how long he tried to close his eyes, because when he opened them again the blood was still there. It was still there on his flesh, staring back at him and grinding with cruel intent, teasing him and mocking his efforts to try and remove it from existence.

Everything he did was futile. 

Everything he tried to do resulted in nothing changing.

The only thing that happened, was the fact that his body felt worse than it did when he originally started. His mind was still spinning and commanding him to keep washing, to keep scrubbing the blood off, but his hands were starting to hurt.. And he smelled blood in the water, the redness everywhere.

And yet, when he closed his eyes, it was nowhere, too. 

Except for the fact he still smelled it, but he paid it no mind. It wasn’t actually there, after all. It wasn’t there, and the feeling of something dripping down his arms wasn’t there either.

He was just imagining it. 

_Nothing more, nothing less._

**— — —**

The fourth time it got really bad was when he was at home, a few days after his mother found out he was Ace. She had found him, soaking wet on his bed in his vigilante gear; Said costume tinted with red water from his lazy and unintelligent schemes in the bathtub.

She had been a nervous wreck, terrified as to what happened to him. 

Izuku somehow managed to avoid the conversation about his skin being scrubbed raw, the exhaustion that had pooled at the time being enough to make Inko hug and ask him to go and shower so she could make him something to eat, and a hot cup of tea so he could gain some energy back.

Somewhere in his body, he wished she _had_ asked about the red skin.

But that wish was brushed aside in favor of escaping the cold cloth that was sticky against his skin, making him wince as if his entire uniform was coated in blood- Whereas it was only tinted with the ichor from his veins. 

After that, he had slept in his bed for a while. It felt like eternity, too.

When the sun appeared to take the world in its non-existent hands the following morning, to give the people of earth daylight, Izuku had groaned and buried his head into his pillow. 

When he finally has to get up, per his mother’s anxious and soft requests, he would try to avoid moving his arms. He was stuck in a never ending loop that rarely gave him an ounce of mercy, forcing him to act gingerly as if he’d break apart if he didn’t.

_Maybe he would._

It was inevitable in some cases, but resetting wouldn’t give him the clarity needed to get the blood off. It wouldn’t calm him down fast enough, wouldn’t soothe his fear or stop his sudden apprehension. It never calmed him down, never made him feel safe enough to stop pacing.

He knew it shouldn’t last for ever, and that his fears were far too irrational to be considered a real concern, but sometimes he wished he had more options. Sometimes he wished he could trust himself to confide in a person, and not worry as much as he did. 

It was a long-shot, and the risks that weighed on his shoulders was too much for him to ignore though. It made him mad, the way he wished he could find someone to help- But then he couldn’t due to a bunch of reasons that screamed at him to keep his habits a damn secret. 

When it was night, against his mother’s worries, he’d go off as Ace and patrol. Sometimes this helped take his mind off of all the blood and vitality that bled through his bedroom’s carpet, or the way his life was drained out of him as he laid in a bathtub with his arms bleeding out in pitiful secrecy. 

Sometimes it didn’t.

When the pain struck him in the head, made him double over from how direct and sharp it hurt, he’d ignore his nature to act like nothing was wrong. He’d flinch without a real reason to, look around as if a person had just hit him with a knife from the roof of a building. 

He’d lie through his teeth and pretend that there was no reason for his sudden and abrupt exits; That there was no reason why he got so fidgety out of nowhere. He’d lie right through his fucking teeth, swiftly excuse himself and head to whatever restroom was nearby so he could try and soothe his nerves.

At school, this was an issue that couldn’t be comprehended or understood by his classmates, or the facility staff on campus who taught him all of his educational subjects.

At home, his mother had started picking up on it. Inko had started connecting the dots, from his irritated and red hands to the way he moved fiberglass as if he had cut his torso and burned his skin. Of course, she would fixate her green eyes on him with worry and gentle concern, only asking if he was injured.

Several times he contemplated saying that, _yes,_ he was. 

Izuku contemplated coming clean and explaining to his mother that he was hurting, and had no idea how to stop the pain that festered up under his skin and plagued him with dehydration and an unexplained nervousness.

But, as always, the instinctive response that tumbled past his lips was, _‘I’m fine, it’s okay. I’d tell you if something was wrong, wouldn’t I?’_

And for all that it was worth, he felt horrible. He wished he could stop the lies and defensive words that came out of his mouth, wish he could bow his head and formally apologize to his peers and teachers- To his mom there for not ever elaborating as to why he hated the mention of blood.

Why he started being skittish when a person grabbed his wrist, or when in training he was put so off guard he would become brutally accurate with fighting against his peers. 

It was never enough to hurt them, never enough to truly harm them, but it was enough to make them ache and wonder what made him so scared and suddenly very different from his normal self. 

His hands would blister and bleed, and he’d scowl while running then under hot water from one of the bathroom’s sinks. He’d try and wipe his arms with damp paper-towels as carefully as he could, hoping it’d be enough to make his heart rate decrease. 

Hoping and wishing that maybe, just once, his body wouldn’t beg for him to scratch the illusionary blood off. 

That just maybe, all he needed was someone to tell him he was seeing things, and he just needed rest. That what his eyes were doing was a mindless and stupid side-effect of sleep deprivation, and that he just needed to rest well for a few days to fix it.

Of course, the question remained as to _who_ would do that for him. Deep down, he wanted to say there were several people who would. He knew it- He knew there were, too.

But his irrational way of thinking was enough to make him shake his head in clear apprehension, refuse to believe his logically and more sensible mind and continue wallowing in self destruction. Then again, he realized he did that a lot- So perhaps his doubt and hatred was justified.

It wasn’t too out of the ordinary from what he could tell, even if it made him want to hit his head into a wall from the constant nagging of, ‘Clean your hands’ and ‘Wash your skin’ and ‘Scrape yourself dry’. 

The pain was enough to ground him, and then it turned into blinding numbness for the next six hours of his pitiful life. If he wanted, he could try and reset right after scratching his skin apart, but if he were to do that; He’d have to live through the experiences all over again, and that shit wasn’t fun in the long shot.

He wanted the feeling gone- The blood, too.

Not to repeat the process and suffer through the gritted teeth, blurry vision and flinching of his body against the cold floor tiles as he sulked in sharp inhales of air. It was like a knife being directly thrusted through his lungs, twisting in the organ and forcing him to cough whatever oxygen he had up and out of his system.

As normal, he figured indulging in the feeling would be worth it if it gave him a moment of lucidity. A moment of safety, pure meaningless bliss that wouldn’t serve him as a threat when he was vividly aware of all the shit he put his body through moments before. 

It was an inhumane feeling, losing all sense of understanding and mindlessly scrubbing until he felt the burn on his skin of aggravation; The feeling that made him freeze on the spot and stare at the tiny beads of blood that started to pool past his skin at an alarming rate. 

He’d stare and stare, and the blood would look back.

Half the time, he was afraid to admit this, he couldn’t tell if it was real or fake. He couldn’t tell if he was going batshit crazy, trying to tend to injuries that were also mere chimeras in his mind, or if he was genuinely hurting and about to pass out while in a bathtub with the water a deep red hue. 

It was a never ending cycle, constantly making him pause and drift off to get lost in his thoughts. At times, he’d wonder if his injuries were even accidental. He wondered if he was doing this intentionally, waiting for something to snap him out of the mental spiral he was in. 

Maybe he was.

Maybe he wasn’t.

Izuku didn’t know, and he certainly couldn’t tell the fucking difference with his head fogged up with anxieties over things as small as if he’d be able to pick up chopsticks at lunch, or if he’d be able to watch TV with his mom without excusing himself to rinse his hands off.

Those things were small and unbelievably frustrating, as if they were just tiny pieces of gravel stuck in his shoes from a patrol as Ace. 

He wondered if he was being downright stupid when he couldn’t tell the difference between what was a _real_ issue, and what clearly wasn’t. What he should worry about, and what was something he should ignore.

He’d stare at the ceiling in his room, too lazy to get up off his bedroom floor, but uncomfortable enough to want to move to the warmth and softness of his mattress and blankets. As hours ticked by, turning into large timespans where he’d just lay on the carpet and ponder his choices.

Some questions were meaningless, things that were bland and held no real importance. Other times, he’d feel his heart speed up at so much as a thought in the direction of what would happen if he got lost in up his head at school in one of the many restrooms there on campus. 

He’d try to focus on the reasons why that would never happen, and the things he could do to avoid it. The things that prevented him from scrubbing his entire body raw during school hours.

Izuku would try so hard to not go still, to not freeze up. 

But his body never listened to him; And so he tried not to listen to himself, either.

**— — —**

The fifth time the hallucinations struck him horribly and made him wish he was at home where he could take a bath and rub his arms down with a hot rag, was when he was in study-hall; Right after having taken a place in his Heroics-Lessons. 

He had experienced the sudden stickiness of blood and a feeling of prickling anxiety came back to haunt him, during the last few hours of the school day. Sickening and anxiety inducing. 

It had been before the dorms were made, and before the sports-festival, but he had felt dread slowly drip into his mind and wash over him at a rate that alarmed him in a way he thought he had adapted and no longer fell victim to. Despite his improvements with handling fear and trepidation. 

Izuku had never asked to go to the bathroom so fast. 

All he knew was that he _needed_ to get the blood off his arms, to scrub it off his hands and make sure his flesh wasn’t tainted and stained with another person’s vitality. The feeling had been too strong for him to ignore, so naturally he had taken his chance to leave as soon as he got it.

He just needed the blood gone, that was all.

The ‘quirkless’ male could feel it, muggy on his skin and humid like the air during a hot day right after it rained for hours without any breaks. It was all over him and he hated it, and he just needed it gone from his eyesight- Out of his mind and out of his head.

If it didn’t exist, it couldn’t bug him anymore, right? 

Despite there being no source of an injury, he felt like there was one. He felt like if he scrubbed hard enough, he’d find the wound and be able to disinfect it, and make sure it would stop bleeding into his vision. That if he tried to find whatever was causing the blood loss, whatever was making him tense up as soon as he looked at his knuckles, he’d be able to get over it. 

At least he _thought_ he could get over it.

He always tried to keep his head level, always tried to make sure his emotions were in check and that he had a clear mind. It was just the fact that sometimes, doing such a thing hurt his brain.

It made him see things he wished he didn’t see. 

It made him anxious, withering inwardly and trying to find something to output the stress. 

The worst part was that it wasn’t like wanting to put a blade to his skin and feel the rush of adrenaline. It wasn’t the same feeling that plagued him in those moments, as it moved and wrapped around his throat. It clung to him uncomfortably, made his body become spiked with adrenaline and pure disquiet. 

Today was one of those days, the urge too much for him to try and smooth out. The feeling twisted in his gut and made him stumble, made him feel like giving in and falling over so he could start to pick at the blood that was delusionally painted under and on his nails. 

As such, he couldn’t find the energy to take the risk of getting caught out in the hallway.

So at the time, he just kept walking, making his way to the restrooms near his class and slipping inside. No one had been in there, and the lights flickered on into a pale yellow glow when he entered.

An automatic touch.

He moved to the sinks, rolling up his sleeves and turning on the faucet. His arms were irritated and blistered, wrapped in bandages near the more vibrant red areas, and dotted with open-wound ointment where the scrubbing had gone too deep.

In retrospect, it had been a horrible idea to try and treat the injuries. He was yet to gather the confidence to say anything at all, to ask to go to Recovery-Girl to heal the injuries, and was too jumpy to even try to ask his mother for so much as a hug in comfort.

 _Fuck,_ he really needed one of those, didn’t he?

He started to wash his hands as gently as he could, carefully running his limbs under the warm water that poured from the sink’s faucet. He was in deep shit, really. The blistered skin hurt, and he felt dirty despite only viewing hallucinated blood- The splatters and drops of red that rolled down his forearms were not real.

Izuku knew this.

Izuku knew this, and yet he found himself grabbing a paper towel and dampening it under the water. He found himself placing the brown-material on his arm, where he saw the blood form and bubble into tiny beads of vermillion.

Tiny beads of self-hate, envisioned from the depths of his mind and the darkest, most cold, parts of his heart. It was a bad thing to see, and it was even worse for him to move the past against the already ripped and irritated skin. It hurt even worse because he had cuts there, a familiar source of hurt and a ‘supposed to soothe’ type of injury. 

But they were agitated by his constant scrubbing, too. They burned against his will, spiteful for his mindless destruction of his body. 

It was a miracle he hadn’t started trying to scrub at his shoulders and torso. A miracle he was trying to use his hands and arms to clean and wash the hallucinated blood away; To try and reassure the part of him that was crying out for attention and mercy per despair. 

Then again, his mind always did that.

His body always asked for things it didn’t need, for things _he_ didn’t want to give it.

He couldn’t give himself a sense of justice or peace, and he struggled to prove his own worth to no one but himself. He hated the way the water running across his skin made him feel, the way it made his head spin in a familiar dizziness; As if he had lost too much blood and was about to rest his existence.

As if he had been bleeding out in the bathroom of his house again, in the bathtub, head submerging under the wine-red waters that slowly clouded over with a coppery-thickness.

Bitter syrup that wasn’t done resonating to gain a sweet after-taste.

Something sour on his tongue, something that made his body collapse on itself from exhaustion. _Something that festered and festered, making him believe he consumed something rancid and rotten._

The feeling of hot lipids covering him was achingly impudent, wasn’t it? It felt warm and soothing, a reassurance to the turmoil brewing in his head like a Hurricane off on the coastline, but it hurt. 

It hurt in the sense that it was his fault for letting himself get this bad, and that it was his issue for allowing himself to wallow and get tangled up in a cloud of thoughts, as thick as smoke and as harsh on his lungs as inhaling Katsuki’s smoke was like. It burned and sizzled, tasted like burnt caramel in his mouth, but coming out bitter and without any real flavor. 

It hurt in the sense that if he didn’t treat the irritated skin, and just keep making it worse, he wouldn’t be able to hide it as well as he did currently. If he didn’t step up his game, he’d get exposed, and people would worry and start asking too many questions that Izuku wouldn’t have an answer to.

The world would cast a blind eye to a quirkless person, but he knew he wasn’t quirkless. He had a quirk he couldn’t prove was real, couldn’t prove that he knew how to avoid death and evade the hands of the Grim Reaper.

He could say it was, ‘Sheer force of will’, but that excuse wouldn’t solve his issues. 

People would laugh at the joke, and then bring the topic back up. They’d keep asking, probing and it would be a situation that Izuku wouldn’t be able to handle. He was a vigilante, sure. He should be able to handle all kinds of hypocrisy and other shit that came knocking at his door.

After all, everything Izuku knew was rooted in his instincts and skills, rooted deep in his head and tangled under thick waves of self-doubt and anxieties that were illogical in every sense.

He kept washing his hands, trying to be as gentle as he could. The blood wasn’t actually there, the blood didn’t actually exist and it certainly wasn’t raining his skin shades of champagne red and deep hues of sunflower yellows, the gold underlining bruises in his knuckles and painting fiery portraits against his complexion.

Except he wasn’t a field browning flowers of bright and dainty colors. He wasn’t the grass that coated the earth, winding deep underground with the roots and dead bodies of those who fell over and yielded against the people who were besides them, watching the bleed their life to the dirt. 

Izuku paused, staring at his hands as they were being run under the hot water. It turned pink rolling off his skin, itched and yet soothed the irritation. He couldn't tell if he wanted to keep them there, or to try and pull away.

Nothing made sense in that way; Nothing at all.

There was no reason for him to dread the everlasting feeling of getting blood off, but at the same time his obsession wasn’t normal. He _knew_ this, and yet he still managed to ignore it to the point he played it off in his own head like it meant absolutely nothing.

His luck was dwindling away, with each session of excessive scrubbing and hot water being rushed over the redness. At times, when he was in class, he’d see it flash on his desk and coat his hands. His pencil would stop writing, and he’d close his eyes to try and get the image out of his head, before he continued.

Of course, those were on good days.

On days where the blood didn’t bother him as much, and when he could handle the strain it put on his thought process. 

Yet again, today was not one of those days. _He wished it was, though._ He really wished that it was one of the days he could ignore the illusions around him, to not let his heart start beating at an alarming rate and cause him to tense up over things that weren’t even there.

He couldn’t imagine what it was like for someone who dealt with this on the daily; The urge to get it off in every waking hour. When he went to bed, it took longer than normal to try and sleep; For the thoughts of violence and gore kept him awake.

By the time he was tired enough to ignore his mind, it was already daybreak, and such an attempt would end up in him being late for school- Or worrying his mother further than he already did. 

It was repetitive. 

It was repetitive, and it hurt more than he’d like to admit.

Izuku blinked away the fuzziness in his vision, looking back to his hands as his eyesight cleared up and allowed him to focus on the world around him again. His hands were shaking from the strain, and he could see blood rolling off his palms again- Mocking him. 

Did it even count as mocking him if he knew that the implications were true?

Maybe it was; He didn’t know. 

He couldn’t clarify it anymore, couldn’t tell the difference. It had only gotten worse, harder to distinguish between the reality of an injury that he couldn’t reset to get rid of, and the everlasting trick of his mind that played around with his senses to make him think the blood he saw was real.

So he kept up, repeating the mindless scrubbing as if it’d save him from the claws of hatred that had started to scratch at his head and drag their nails down his chin and around his neck, as if to put the threat over his head that it’d get him killed. 

But _I can’t die,_ he’d tell himself. 

Her brush the idea away, the possibility of ruining his muscles permanently in favor of saying that he could overcome the obsession. And he could- Just.. Just not right now.

The feeling it gave him was enough to make him continue, reluctantly. Besides, the emotion and levels of stress that haunted him when he _didn’t_ wash the blood off was worse.

Far, far worse. 

He hadn’t noticed the bathroom door open until he heard a voice speak up; Sounding somewhat disturbed. Izuku blinked the blurriness away, ignoring the burning that racked up his spine and swirled about in his vision. 

“Midobro?” The voice asked, soft.

And yet, despite the person being quiet- Sounding as if they were trying to speak gingerly, it felt as if they had just yelled in his ears with Yamada’s quirk on full blast. He stared at his hands again, before forcing his body to stop scratching at his knuckles so much as the water ran.

Izuku turned his head around, to see who was there. He couldn’t focus on the surrounding area, but he knew the person was familiar. Instead, he swallowed down his uncertainty and offered a small greeting. “Yeah?”

_Who calls me that? I know someone does._

He wanted to think someone had replied in the next minute; But his mind had become scrambled and his thoughts were scattered about in eight different realities, six of which were too damn chaotic for him to want to put a pause on and try and find his sanity in.

A hand appeared on his shoulder, a sharp intake of breath not a minute later.Whoever was talking had clearly noticed the damage the freckled teen had done to his body. “You were gone for awhile, Sensei sent me to get you-... Midobro, what happened to your hands?”

Izuku blinked trying to connect the dots as he felt the hand slip from his shoulder. He shook his head, as if it’d make the blood wash away and disappear from its already non-existent state. 

He didn’t give a response, giving a weak shrug and staring at the water. His hands had frozen, but he couldn’t remove them from the comfort of that warmth. It ran over his skin like a hundred gentle taps, beating against the pain that ached and grew deep from within his bones. 

Somewhere in his head, he registered a thought. If he were Ace right now, would it have changed anything? Would being on vigilante patrol give him something to do, something to occupy the part of him that was asking for hygienic actions that only worsened his physical form?

“Midobro,” The person said again, the faucet turning off and a somewhat panicked hand grabbing gently at his forearm, where the redness faded away and where no cuts or scars were fully visible. “Are you okay?”

 _I don’t think I am._

The vigilante in disguise slowly forced his thoughts to still, closing his eyes as he tried to keep his hands from shaking. He’d scrubbed too much, but the blood was still there. 

He still felt it on his skin, and he _hated_ it.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he re-opened his eyes and looked to the left, where he saw a familiar pair of eyes stare at him, worry littered in the depths of the red gaze that hung around besides Katsuki so much. 

Izuku frowned inwardly while meeting Kirishima’s gaze, wincing as he let an apology tumble past his lips. “Sorry, got lost in my thoughts there.” 

The red haired teenager seemed to resist the urge to grimace.

“Your hands are red,” He muttered, losing his rather happy go-lucky personality. The other party didn’t give any elaboration, staring at where his peer was besides him. His hands _were_ red, but Izuku felt so tired it didn’t really cross his mind. 

Everything’s round him felt too warm, and if he didn’t know any better he’d say he had a fever. A distant echo in the back of his mind echoed in uncertainty, contradicting him. _Maybe I am sick._

“We should get you to the nurse’s, tell Sensei you- Ah, I don’t know! What even happened?” Kirishima struggled to put his concern into words, grimacing as he reached over to dampen a paper towel and swiftly tug Izuku’s arm closer, as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

_Maybe he had._

“It’s fine,” The freckled teen mumbled, watching his classmate gingerly tend to the raw skin with a makeshift bandage made of wet paper. It wasn’t a convincing argument, not in the long shot, but maybe if he let it happen- Maybe if he let this happen, he’d finally get a proper idea of how to cope without giving in to the stress of not being able to wash his hands.

“It’s happened before.” Izuku managed to insist, as if it’d help his situation. In retrospect, he was really out of it right now, so that explained his lack of logic and lucidity.

It had happened several times, he knew.

He just remembered the ones that were the most effective in causing him to dread the tingling of dissociation, to crave harm and yet wish he had nothing to with it in any setting to ever exist upon earth. When the pain was too much, he’d cut his arms like it would save him.

In some cases, it did. 

Of course, it also prevented him from being able to fully fix and heightened himself with proper control over his situations and words- So there was always a downside to his turmoil of self-destruction.

 _I wanted someone to help; I got my wish._ Came his thoughts, but for some odd reason he felt betrayed. There was the possibility they’d blame his mother for neglect, which would forever eat away at Izuku’s sanity, but there was also a chance that they ask too many questions.

He knew this, and yet he still somehow went along with what his peer was doing.

Kirishima couldn’t resist the grimace that followed up after his friend’s words, grabbing another towel and carefully taking the ‘quirkless’ student’s other arm. “Just because it’s happened before doesn’t mean you should let it happen again-” 

“Agh..” The injured student jolted, as if to try and remove himself from the presence of the red haired quirk user. The other party frowned at the violent flinch that Izuku made, quickly apologizing for having gripped the former’s wrist with a restrained concern. 

It shouldn’t hurt, not as much as it did. Perhaps he really had scrubbed too much- Maybe his already ripped and tattered skin hadn’t had the chance to stitch itself back together again, and that he truly had fucked up by giving in to the urges of washing away things that didn’t exist.

But it did, in his head.

It tickled his ears, breathed and trickled down his neck. The beads of red sloshed around in his mouth, filling his nose with the scent of metallic liquids that shouldn’t be seen or tasted by people. 

It made his head dizzy, made him want to fall over and curl up.

There were two very different sides of him; The one that wanted the blood to spill, to come pulsing out from his veins at rapid speeds so his life could dwindle away and he could feel the cool touch of death against his skin every other day, and then the side of him who was so repulsed by the red that bubbled out from cuts and scrapes he couldn’t dare to try and cease both urges at once.

Two very different urges, with very different results.

Both soothed him for a time, gave him reassurance. But both of them hurt, damaged his physique and put him back a few steps from the average health of a teenager. It made his mother worry, and clearly made everyone seem to worry, too.

A part of him desired death, desired to ignore Kirishima’s gentle mutters as he guided him out of the bathroom; As if Izuku would bolt if he didn’t get any reassurance.His mind replied to his own questions, like two people bickering in the dead of night across an alley way through each other's' respective windows. _I don’t know.. I might._

He felt his classmate’s hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding. Like the pain of a knife lodged deep in his side, like the pain of a blade piercing through his neck before he reset and died due to his lack of back-up plans.

Just because he couldn’t die didn’t mean he no longer.. Valued his life. He avoided death when he could- Avoided it as Ace, because he didn’t know when he’d fuck up and waste all five of his chances. If he was at home, he contemplated suicide and different ways to die.

He’d try to find the one that he has yet to try, to try and find one that would prove to give him a sudden wave of thrill, motivation to keep going and living _just_ so he could feel it again. 

It was bad, and it wasn’t a good idea in the long shot, but he also had no perseveration skills left. He sat on the edge of a roof just to feel the wind in his hair, the breeze over his skin. Sometimes it gave him a sense of tranquility, other days it barely managed to soothe him at all. 

Barely managed to help him control the impulsive thoughts that would race into his head, crashing into one another and trying to make him adjourn life and jump off the edge of the building, to throw himself off and feel the exhilaration aight would catch him before he lands. 

Just so he could feel alive for a few moments.

Just so he could ward off his pathetic yearning to cut his arms and claw the skin off his hands. 

_Because the blood was there._

The blood was there, always on his skin and in the back of his mind. It came back to whisper harsh things into his eardrums when he tried to sleep, or as he worked on his homework from his other classes at home. It would grip his hands and pull him along, like a magnet sucking in spare pieces of metal.

It’d draw him nearer and nearer to things kids shouldn’t want to do, shouldn’t hope to have the chance to _try to do._ Students weren't supposed to try and die every few days just because they liked how it felt. Students weren’t supposed to survive each suicide attempt, waking up a few hours before the action had ever happened.

And yet, Izuku Midoriya kept doing all these things.

He swept it under the rug and tried not to dwell on it. He’d continue writing in his notes, ignoring the ichor that stuck to the sides of his pages and dripped down his hand, alarmingly warm for it never existing. 

He’d rinse out his mouth and floss his teeth until he tasted the coppery-liquid in his mouth, in small bursts. He’d drown his taste buds in mint, brushing rapidly to try and get rid of the flavor he provoked from his body just a few moments before such vigorous shaking. 

Sometimes he thought about using bleach, or drinking large quantities of cleaning supplies. He thought about downing them like shots, to try and lighten up his tense body and bring himself some wrong and very concerning amusement.

That's just what he did, trying to joke over his own deaths. 

He didn’t notice he had reached Recovery-Girl’s office until he heard Kirishima calling out for his name, sounding a thousand miles away. Perhaps he was, a large distance off and nowhere near where Izuku needed him to be. He wasn’t close with the quirk-user, but he was fond of all his peers despite his pain and hidden misery.

So rather numbly, as if he wasn’t aware of what he was doing, he reached out and lazily gave a half-way embrace to his classmate, muttering a, ‘Finish your science notes’ In a tired and worn out voice. 

The teenager didn’t hear what Kirishima said in return, as Izuku was already shuffling over to a cot and sitting down, maneuvering himself to lay down not a moment later to bury his head into one of the many pillows. He didn’t want to hear the static hum in his ears, or voice his opinion as to why his peer had brought him in.

He knew his vision was fuzzy, and his body was still aching for him to have stayed and continued washing his hands, but he thought maybe if he just let his classmate take him to Recovery-Girl, _just maybe,_ he’d be given the chance to get rid of the urge that plagued him.

Probably not, but it seemed like a plausible option at the time. 

So he heard the distant chatter, then heard the door click shut. He sighed, not caring if it was loud or silent. As soon as he felt his head clear, as soon as he managed to stomp down the feeling of blood on his skin, he pushed himself up with weak arms and sat with his legs dangling off the cot. 

Izuku inhaled again, scowling at the wet towels on his arms and plastered to the palms and backsides of his hands. It wasn’t painful anymore, but it did twinge with phantom agony when he clenched his limbs into fists, or twitched the fingers too much. 

_It’s my own fault._ His mind said, and he agreed. 

“Midoriya.” Recovery-Girl’s voice was right besides him, in front of him as he sat on the cot. Slowly, he blinked in acknowledgement, dropping his arms into his lap in a lazy and careless manner. Pain sprung up for a hot minute, before it disappeared into white and smoldering blankness. 

Again, Izuku paused. 

Recovery-Girl took note, to which he didn’t know whether to be happy or upset about it. So he let his mind swirl with thoughts, tricking himself into blaming no one other than his own selfish indulgences. _I wanted someone to help- I wanted this. I shouldn’t be hesitant._

“Can I see your arms? Kirishima said you had-” Her voice was surprisingly soft, still the familiar harshness that showed she wasn’t happy to see him in the Nurse’s office; But clearly concerned. 

He cut her off, voice weak as he lifted his arms numbly, showing them to her. He was starting to come back to his senses, the prickling fear that she’d ask him to roll up his sleeves more starting to become more and more present. He hoped she’d just scold and reprimand him, so he could leave. “Scrubbed them raw.. Sorry.”

“Midor- Don’t apologize!” She frowned, expression wavering as she sighed heavily. The woman moved gingerly, taking his arm and peeling the wet paper towels away. “It’s more serious than if this affects your ability to train or not.”

“I know,” He suppressed a wince at the pain that bubbled up, stinging against the cold air. Izuku couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, as if it’d save him from bearing the burden all alone. “It was just.. Bad today. It won’t happen again.”

He lied through his teeth.

_It will. It’ll happen again._

Didn’t he always?

“What was bad?” Recovery-Girl asked, sounding surprisingly patient for someone who threatened to thwack students and teachers alike upside the head with her staff if they returned to her office within the same week as the first treatment. 

The male tried not to think about what went bad. He tried hard to ignore the words he wanted to say. _It wouldn’t be worth it._ So, Izuku didn’t reply, instead choosing to watch her peel off the last towel. The momentary flash of disbelief and shock was enough to make him look away again; Not wanting to see her expression at all the ripped and reddish skin.

She couldn’t see the blood, though. 

It wasn’t real, after all.

“Midoriya?” The adult asked, voice quiet as she spoke. Her posture reminded him of someone who was trying to prevent an irrational movement, but not being able to. She was preparing for him to lash out, or to cry, he realized. 

Recovery-Girl was expecting him to have an explanation, or a _reaction._

But in truth, all he wanted to do was go home and drink tea. To go home and shakily hug his mother, say he was going to take a bath. Say he’d be right out to watch some drama-shows on TV with her, like every Thursday night, and that he’d help her make something to eat for dinner.

He wanted to go home and lie through his teeth; To go and lock himself in his bathroom and wash his hands so the blood would go away, and so he wouldn’t be tempted to kill himself to try and reset his mind and start over again- 

Resetting never worked to get rid of shit like this. 

“It was a bad day.” He said, thickly. The thoughts of distrust and secrecy filled his head, hitting him in the skull like a gun pressed to his forehead. It was a sickening, yet familiar feeling. _You wouldn’t believe me if I said why it was bad. You wouldn’t believe me even if I had proof._

“Bad days don’t result in things like this,” She replied evenly, carefully. Looking at his arms and hands again, she sighed. It didn’t sound angry, but Izuku wasn’t convinced. He should’ve just brushed Kirishima’s consideration off- Ignored his desire for someone to try and help him. 

She kept staring at the injuries, and he followed her gaze again. The teenager didn’t know why he did it,he just knew that if he kept staring at the wall he'd get frustrated and start thinking about washing away the blood again.The blood was clotting in his eyes, bubbling up past the small nips in his knuckles that would soon scab over.

It was a shock they hadn’t gotten infected, really.

The UA staff member sighed again at his lack of responsiveness, instead choosing to try a different tactic. “Do you want me to wrap them? Or would you rather have me use my quirk?”

“Quirk.” Came the tired reply. 

And she listened, stopping with her prying words and activating her quirk to heal the injuries he’d inflicted upon himself in his state of mindless devastation. He knew that he’d tear his skin again, litter it with rips and raw scabs, but he wanted to know if bringing fully healed would change how much blood he saw. 

It felt like he’d spaced out, the pain slowly disappearing. Hov course, his satisfaction was drowned out by sudden exhaustion, and he suddenly wished he’d just asked for her to manually wrap the injuries. 

So instead of doing anything, he shut his eyes and moved his head so his face was directed to the left, back at the wall, but unseeing. School would let out soon, and he would have to walk home and try and face Inko without excusing himself to go cut his arms to take away the feeling that was growing in his chest again.

But he didn’t say anything, waiting in silence.

It wasn’t particularly comforting, but it wasn’t tense either. If he could describe it, he’d say it was _pathetic acceptance._ Recovery-Girl wouldn’t let him leave if he asked, and he felt like if he tried to he’d wind up in more trouble and would risk more than what he was willing to.

Even if his injuries were gone, scars still remained. 

He didn’t want to explain those. Not to his teachers- Not to his peers, and _definitely not_ to his mother. She didn’t deserve to learn such a fact, and certainly not through Izuku’s stupidity at trying to get his mind under control to avoid the hallucinations of blood that soaked the room and drew sharp intakes from deep in his lungs.

At some point, he heard Recovery-Girl tell him to lie down, so he did.

The teenager felt his head on the pillow, side pressed into the cot as his mind spun in circles. Izuku didn’t know why he stayed still, breathing calmly despite the racing of his thoughts, yelling at him for being too weak to handle a bit of blood. 

He heard the bell ring after a while, and shut his eyes tighter. Recovery-Girl didn’t ask anything else, quietly chatting to someone on the phone. He would be eavesdropped if it weren’t for the fact he feels as if someone had hit him in the stomach a few hours ago, and left him to die in a cold alley way. 

And yet, despite that, when he saw the nurses’ office door open from the corner of his blurry vision; His teacher’s head poking in and then entering fully, Izuku managed to give a small smile in acknowledgement. 

Sometimes the blood was bad, and it made him curl up and try to ignore the scent, the taste, the color- He’d stay up for hours, fighting and struggling against his mixed emotions that never could pick one thing over the other. He didn’t know if he wanted to feel his blood pulse out of his veins until he died, or if he never wanted to see it ever again.

Sometimes, it made him do irrational things to try and get rid of it. Like today, as he was here, lying on a cot, missing precious time in class where he could be finishing up his homework so he’d have a clear plate to go patrol as Ace that same night.

But, perhaps this was one of those times where he just needed someone to tell him that he wasn’t stupid for not knowing what he wanted to feel, what he wanted _to do._

Izuku hoped it was.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t want this to drag on too long, and lost a large portion of my motivation near the end; So I hope this still is a decent read for some. Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Please go read “better luck next time”, it is literally my favorite fic at this point. :D )


End file.
